Grizz
It’s been a couple days since Daisy and I got back from Saskatchewan.
New York feels harsher than it did before, but it has nothing to do with sirens or traffic or the endless churn of people moving too fast. It’s as though the city noticed I left and decided to remind me exactly where I am the second my feet touched Manhattan concrete again.
We haven’t spent a night apart since we returned.
Sometimes it’s my place, sometimes it’s hers, and sometimes there’s no conversation at all—we just end up together, shoes kicked off wherever, bodies finding each other like they’re meant to even when everything else feels uncertain.
I don’t talk about it. I just register the warmth of her next to me, the way she breathes when she sleeps, the instinctive curl of her body toward mine.
Now I’m standing in my bedroom, duffel bag spread open across the bed, staring down at it with the strange sense that’s gnawing at me.
We have a road game in Pittsburgh and it’s time to pack.
This should be automatic by now. Jam clothes in suitcase, zip, leave, repeat.
I’ve done this hundreds of times without thinking, but tonight my hands slow when I reach for a clean T-shirt, because my brain gets stuck on a detail so stupid and small—Daisy folding it last night without a word, smoothing the fabric, setting it on top of my bag like it mattered.
I drop the shirt into the bag and zip it closed.
Daisy’s at her place tonight and I told myself it was fine, that space is healthy, that it doesn’t mean anything beyond two people needing their own beds once in a while. I want to believe that logic but fuck if I don’t miss her.
I pick up the phone and shoot her a text. You still awake?
The reply comes seconds later. Barely. Packing-induced existential dread?
I smile and respond. Pretty much.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, phone warm in my hands, aware of how different the room feels without her in it.
And that’s when the realization lands. This is what I do now.
When something’s off, when I can’t sleep, when a game doesn’t sit right in my bones, when my dad’s name creeps into my head without warning, when I can’t tell whether I’m losing my edge or finding something else, I don’t grind it out alone anymore.
I don’t drown it in noise or muscle through it out of habit.
I reach for Daisy instinctively, like my brain already decided she’s the place where things settle and make sense. The fact that I don’t question it is what scares me.
Comfort was never a certainty I trusted growing up. It was conditional, only ever earned, and just as easily revoked. You didn’t go looking for reassurance but rather you handled it. You swallowed it. You got tougher and quieter and learned how not to need anyone.
And now here I am, built like a wrecking ball and paid millions to be unshakeable, unraveling slightly because I want to hear her voice before I get on a plane.
I text her again. I keep thinking I forgot something.
The three dots appear, disappear, then come back. You packed everything, even the stuff you usually forget. I watched you do it. Supervised packing serves you well, Grizz.
A quiet laugh slips out before I can stop it, the sound foreign in the stillness. I meant… something else.
This time she takes longer. Emotional or logistical?
I stare at the screen. Both.
Another pause. You want me to come over?
The offer sits there, simple and unforced, and that’s exactly why it rattles me. She never pushes, never demands more than I can give, never pretends she doesn’t see the edges I keep hidden.
I picture her here without effort—hair still damp from the shower, one of my hoodies hanging off her shoulder—and I know she’d be here in twenty minutes if I said the word.
I also know how badly I want that.
Too badly.
No, I type finally. I just needed to check in.
Her response comes softer, even through text. I’m here anyway. You know that.
I do know that and I don’t know what to do with it.
I finish packing on autopilot, letting routine anchor me while my thoughts drift where I don’t want to follow. This trip is supposed to be simple and short. The normal roadie. One game then back home.
But all I can think about is how wrong it feels to leave her behind, how strange it is that being away from the rink doesn’t unsettle me nearly as much as being away from Daisy does.
I can’t hold it in any longer. I text her again. Want to come hang for a bit before I leave?
I don’t know when she became the place I go when everything starts to slip, but I know one thing with uncomfortable certainty—
Whatever this is between us, it’s already changing me, whether I’m ready to admit it or not.
When Daisy arrives, she doesn’t knock. She enters because she knows I leave the door open for her, always waiting for her to come and brighten up my days.
She steps inside with that familiar mix of confidence and calmness, coat half slipped from her shoulders, eyes already scanning my face.
I take the coat from her without thinking, hang it up, and for a moment we just stand there, both of us aware of how much space has been collapsing between us lately.
I lead her to the couch instead of going to the bedroom, which feels natural even if neither of us says it out loud.
She tucks one leg beneath her, curls toward me, hands folded loosely in her lap.
I lean back, forearms resting on my thighs, trying to ignore how right it feels to have her here, like this, in the quiet.
“So,” she says, not pushing, never pushing. “Have you talked to Eliza today?”
I’ve been keeping up to speed on my dad through frequent updates from my sister, and in turn, I’ve been updating Daisy.
I take a breath before answering. “Yeah… this morning. She said things are finally settling down and Dad seems to have acclimated.”
She nods, waiting.
“The trip helped,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “It helped my sister more than I think she even realized.” I glance at Daisy, then away again. “El sounded lighter… less like she was carrying the whole thing by herself.”
Daisy’s mouth curves into a small smile. “I’m glad.”
“She told me…,” I add, “that she was glad I brought you. It made her really happy.”
Her brows lift slightly. “She did?”
“Yeah.” I huff a breath. “Actually… she keeps saying how much she likes you.”
That gets a laugh out of Daisy, soft and surprised. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirm. “She doesn’t like everyone. Can’t stand me a lot of the time.”
“Neither do you,” she counters.
I shake my head. “I like people.”
She shoots me a look. “You tolerate people.”
“Fair.”
Daisy studies me for a beat, then says, “You seem… more at ease.”
I blink. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Just… more grounded.”
I roll my shoulders, considering it. “Maybe.”
“What do you think it is?”
I know the answer. I just don’t know how to say it without fully cracking.
“I think,” I say slowly, “being there reminded me I don’t have to outrun everything all the time.”
Her gaze softens, like she hears the part of the sentence I didn’t say out loud. “That’s good,” she says.
“It is,” I agree. Then, because honesty has been creeping up on me lately whether I like it or not, I add, “It’s also… unsettling.”
She doesn’t pretend not to understand. “Because it’s unfamiliar?”
“Because it means things are changing,” I say. “And I’m not great at that.”
Daisy shifts close enough that I can feel her warmth. “You don’t have to be great at it. You just have to be present.”
I let out a breath that’s halfway to a laugh. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” she says. “But it’s doable.”
There it is again—that steadfastness she brings into every room, every conversation. She doesn’t ask for promises. She doesn’t corner me into declarations. She just… shows up.
And somehow that feels even better. It’s what I need now.
“Eliza wanted to know if you were coming back anytime soon.”
Daisy’s eyes grow wide. “What did you tell her?”
“That you’ve got your own life here,” I say. “Which you do.”
She nods. “I do.”
“I also told her…,” I hesitate, then continue anyway, “that I like having you around.”
The words hang between us and Daisy’s breath catches. “You like having me around?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
She turns fully toward me now. “That’s not a small thing, Grizz.”
“I know.”
Her hand comes to rest on the couch cushion between us, close enough that our fingers nearly touch. “Then what are you holding back?”
The question is gentle. It’s the gentleness that makes it dangerous.
I look at her, and the answer rushes in too fast, too big. Because I can feel it there, sitting just beneath my ribs: the pull, the wanting, the terrifying urge to let her all the way in and see what happens if I stop fearing what might happen.
“I’ve spent a long time keeping parts of myself separate,” I say instead. “The hockey part. The family part. The… everything else part.” I exhale slowly. “You blur those lines.”
She nods, absorbing it without flinching. “I don’t want you to lose yourself.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the problem.”
She doesn’t argue or reassure me with empty words. She just reaches out and lets her fingers brush mine, light and grounding.
“I’m not asking you for anything you’re not ready to give,” she says. “I just want to be here while you figure it out.”
I turn my hand, lace my fingers through hers, and for a moment I let myself lean into it. Not the future or the promise. Just this—her beside me… real and undeniably present.
I’m not ready to give her everything. But I’m closer than I’ve ever been. And that realization feels both terrifying and inevitable.
Daisy’s phone buzzes between us, the sound small but audible in the quiet. She glances down at the screen, and her expression shifts.
“Elias,” she says. “Confirming dinner.”
I don’t say anything at first, but I feel it anyway—that tight, irrational flare in my chest, the one I don’t like admitting exists.
The idea of her sitting across from him tonight, laughing the way she does when she’s comfortable, leaning in, sharing pieces of her day while I’m somewhere over Pennsylvania eating airplane food and pretending not to care.
I scoff quietly before I can stop myself. “Figures he’s there to swoop in when I leave.”
She looks up at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, deliberately careless. “Just funny how he’s always… around.”
Her eyes narrow. “He’s my best friend.”
“Yeah,” I say, a little too offhand. “You’ve mentioned.”
She doesn’t let that slide. “Say it,” she says calmly. “Whatever you’re implying—just say it.”
I lean back, working a muscle in my cheek. “I just think it’s interesting that the guy who helped get you this job also gets front-row access to your life. Dinners. Drinks. Catch-ups. Feels… convenient.”
Her posture straightens. “Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t reduce him to some ulterior-motive caricature just because you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” I lie. I’m so fucking uncomfortable because I don’t know how to handle all these feelings.
She gives me a look that tells me I’m bad at that. “Elias has been in my life for over a decade,” she continues, voice steady but firm. “He was there when I was broke, when I was figuring out who I was, when I got fired, when I moved to New York. He’s family to me.”
I open my mouth to argue. Close it again.
She doesn’t soften. “And if this”—she gestures loosely between us—“is going to work in any capacity, you don’t get to treat him like a threat.”
“I didn’t say he was a threat,” I mutter.
“You didn’t have to,” she says. “Your tone did it for you.”
The silence stretches, thick and prickly. I hate how exposed it makes me feel—how obvious my jealousy must be, how juvenile it sounds even in my own head.
She exhales, calmer now but no less resolved. “I’m not choosing between you and Elias. That’s not a choice I’ll ever make.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I say.
“Then don’t act like you are,” she replies.
I scrub a hand over my face, frustration and shame mixing. “I just don’t like the idea of you going to dinner with him while I’m gone.”
She studies me for a beat, then says, “That’s a you problem, Grizz. Not a me problem.”
I wince. Because she’s right.
“And,” she adds, “I’m not going to shrink my world to make you feel more comfortable.”
“Okay,” I say finally. “Then what do you want me to do?”
She considers that. “Get to know him. Actually get to know him.”
I snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”
She smiles, unfazed. “You’ll survive.” Then she tilts her head, eyes bright with a look that feels dangerously like determination. “I’m going to set up drinks for the three of us once you’re back in New York.”
I blink. “You’re serious.”
“Completely,” she says. “You don’t have to love him. You don’t even have to like him. But you do have to respect that he’s important to me.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Then we have a bigger problem,” she says.
I let out a slow breath. “Fine. Drinks. The three of us.”
Her smile returns. “Good.”
She stands, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “I should go.”
I nod, even though every instinct in me wants to pull her back down beside me, wants to erase the idea of anyone else having her attention tonight.
At the door, she pauses and turns back. “This isn’t me pushing you away,” she says. “It’s me making sure there’s room for both of you.”
I watch her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. I don’t like the idea of Elias.
But I like even less the idea of losing Daisy because I couldn’t get over myself.